


Blood Red

by vodkasam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crying, Dean is Messed Up From Hell, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmare, PTSD, Wincest - Freeform, brief mention of rape, hurt!Dean, protective!Sam, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkasam/pseuds/vodkasam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can’t deny the sense of power he gets from this, anyway. He snaps three of the demon’s ribs just with the knife, and then his hand goes in, making contact with squishy guts and wet muscle. He groans a little at the soft squelching feeling, but it’s not bad. It’s just part of the power trip. Dean’s intestines are still in one piece. His lungs can still take in and expel air. This shell of a person can’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Red

Dean can taste the tangy blood on his tongue, can feel it everywhere on his skin. The demon lies on the ground in a pool of dark blood, and Dean’s the one who stabbed it, but he can’t seem to stop slashing.

 

“My good boy,” he hears Alastair saying sweetly in his head, “such a good boy…” The crossroads are gone, and he’s surrounded in the dark chambers of Hell. He knows it’s not real, but still he digs in with the knife, hard, around the ribs. He yanks the knife down, driving it deeper in as he goes. His fist is soaked in blood along with the sleeve of his shirt, but he could care less, because as long as those words are in his head, he knows he’s okay. Knows he’s safe. Knows he won’t be back on the rack any time soon. Alastair’s prodigy can’t be hurt unless he makes mistakes, but he won’t be hurt except for a little S&M play when Alastair’s feeling extra adventurous. Dean hates being his fucktoy, but he takes what he can get. Anything’s better than the torture.

 

Dean can’t deny the sense of power he gets from this, anyway. He snaps three of the demon’s ribs just with the knife, and then his hand goes in, making contact with squishy guts and wet muscle. He groans a little at the soft squelching feeling, but it’s not bad. It’s just part of the power trip. Dean’s intestines are still in one piece. His lungs can still take in and expel air. This shell of a person can’t.

 

“Dean! Dean, she’s dead. It’s over.”

 

But Dean doesn’t stop – he can’t. He doesn’t want to, and he couldn’t if he tried. This is like breathing. Feels like orgasm, tastes better than any pie Dean’s ever tried. Dean can hear his brother talking to him, but it’s not enough to snap him out of this. He keeps raking the knife down the girl’s body for a while but then abandons the knife for his hands. He hits, claws, punches…

 

“Dean, come on, you gotta stop, man. The demon’s dead. You got it.”

 

But then cold hands are sliding over his shoulders and down his chest, too pale and thin to be Sammy’s. “Good work, Dean. My beautiful boy…” Alastair’s fingers slide down to Dean’s waist and slip under his jeans, and that’s when Dean startles himself awake with a scream tearing from his throat.

 

Sam is already at his side, a warm hand reaching out for him, but Dean mutters a “get the fuck away from me,” and is into the kitchen before Sam can even react. Dean adjusts his pajama bottoms on his hips with one hand as he pulls out the half gallon of milk and starts drinking it from its container. He spills some down his bare chest because his hands are shaking so hard.

 

He coughs, can feel Sam’s eyes burning a hole between his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t speak. He slams the milk onto the counter and Sam’s quickly there, capping it and sliding it back into the fridge. Dean feels a tingling in his nose and knows what’s coming. He’s desperate to stop it, but honestly, this time he’s not sure if he can. It’s just past four in the morning, and Sam’s hand is on his bare back, and they’re walking back to Dean’s bed. Dean presses his upper body onto his legs, bent clean in half, buried away for a little while longer. Then Sam’s weight is making the bed dip next to Dean, and Sam’s hands are on him, warm and comforting. Dean leans into the touch for once, and Sam seems glad, because he starts rubbing Dean’s back. Dean’s afraid if he doesn’t let Sam take care of him tonight, he’ll come apart in a much more dangerous way later. He’ll settle for being curled up and trembling next to his warm, safe brother.

 

“Dean…” Sam finally says. His voice is gentle, hesitant. “What happened tonight? I know you’ve been having nightmares since you got back, I just… not like this. At least, not while I’ve been around.”

 

Dean tries to sit up, but he just can’t manage.

 

“It’s okay,” Sam says quickly. He keeps running a hand over Dean’s back.

 

“Alastair,” Dean says, and that’s really all he needs to say. Sam’s eyes fall shut, and Dean can hear him breathe a quiet expletive. “I can hear him,” Dean says, and swallows thickly. He knows Sam wouldn’t ask him to elaborate; even one word out of Dean can be extremely explanatory and helpful. But Dean also knows Sam won’t mind a little more. God, he probably thinks it’s _good_ for Dean. Which it might be, though it feels awful.

 

“He tells me I’m good when I hurt them.” Dean hides his face in shame, but Sam doesn’t pull his hand away, so Dean takes that as a good sign. “And if I’m good, then I know he won’t hurt me. So I have to keep going. And…” His voice gets even softer. “And we were on a hunt in my dream, you and me, and, uh, there was a demon. I killed her but… well, I kept hurting her. You were trying to get me to stop and I wouldn’t. Sammy, I _couldn’t_.”

 

Dean pauses, but Sam can tell there’s more to the story. He starts lightly scratching Dean’s back, and Dean shifts to get his feet off the carpet and elects to tuck them under himself instead. He’s curled up in a ball with his eyes shut, back slightly to Sammy, and he thinks he can talk now.

 

“Alastair, he, uh, he did stuff to me. Like…” Dean lets the silence fall. Sam’s hand stops moving, and Dean instinctively pries away when the comforting fingers leave him altogether. _I knew I shouldn’t have said that_ , Dean thinks, but then Sam is carefully pulling him into a sitting position.

 

“No,” Sam says quietly. He cups Dean’s jaw in his hand as he shakes his head. “No, no…”

 

Dean nods, and Sam’s face crumbles.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, voice thick with emotion. “I should have tried harder. I did everything, but nothing was enough. I tried, Dean, I swear, I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

 

Dean shakes his head, eyes wide, but then he starts to bury himself back into his safe little fetal position. Sam stops him, crushes him into a hug. Dean is shocked at first, but then he grabs onto Sam so hard it must hurt.

 

“I can’t stop seeing him,” Dean says, and his voice scares him. He sounds like he’s crying. A hand to his face tells him that he has tears on his cheeks, and he didn’t even realize. When did he start crying? “Sammy,” he says brokenly.

 

Sam doesn’t reply, just keeps holding him and rubbing his back. Dean buries his face in Sam’s shoulder and finally just cries. He shakes with the force of his sobs, but Sam has him, and it’s over now. Alastair’s dead. It’s all over now.


End file.
